Chapter IV: Front Matter (4)

She walks in quickly, but without haste; dressed in her mutch, her neckerchief, her white dimity short-gown, her black bombazine petticoat, showing her white worsted stockings and her carpet-shoes. Behind her was James with Rab. James sat down in the distance, and took that huge and noble head between his knees. Rab looked perplexed and dangerous; forever cocking his ear and dropping it as fast.

Ailie stepped up on a seat, and laid herself on the table, as her friend the surgeon told her; arranged herself, gave a rapid look at James, shut her eyes, rested herself on me, and took my hand. The operation was at once begun; it was necessarily slow; and chloroform--one of God's best gifts to his suffering children--was then unknown. The surgeon did his work. Rab's soul was working within him; he saw that something strange was going on--blood flowing from his mistress, and she suffering; his ragged ear was up, and importunate; he growled and gave now and then a sharp impatient yelp; he would have liked to have done something to that man. But James had him firm, and gave him a _glower_[109-2] from time to time, and an intimation of a possible kick;--all the better for James, it kept his eye and his mind off Ailie.

It is over; she is dressed, steps gently and decently down from the table, looks for James; then, turning to the surgeon and the students, she curtsies--and in a low, clear voice, begs their pardon if she has behaved ill. The students--all of us--wept like children; the surgeon happed her up carefully--and, resting on James and me, Ailie went to her room, Rab following. We put her to bed. James took off his heavy shoes, crammed with tackets, heel-capt and toe-capt, and put them carefully under the table, saying, "Maister John, I'm for nane o' yer strynge nurse bodies for Ailie. I'll be her nurse, and I'll gang about on my stockin' soles as canny as pussy."

And so he did; handy and clever, and swift and tender as any woman, was that horny-handed, snell, peremptory little man. Everything she got he gave her; he seldom slept; and often I saw his small, shrewd eyes out of the darkness, fixed on her. As before, they spoke little.

Rab behaved well, never moving, showing us how meek and gentle he could be, and occasionally, in his sleep, letting us know that he was demolishing some adversary. He took a walk with me every day, generally to the Candlemaker Row; but he was sombre and mild; declined doing battle, though some fit cases offered, and indeed submitted to sundry indignities; and was always very ready to turn and came faster back, and trotted up the stair with much lightness, and went straight to that door.

Jess, the mare, had been sent, with her weather-worn cart, to Howgate, and had doubtless her own dim and placid meditations and confusions, on the absence of her master and Rab, and her unnatural freedom from the road and her cart.

For some days Ailie did well. The wound healed "by the first intention;" for as James said, "Our Ailie's skin's ower clean to beil." The students came in quiet and anxious, and surrounded her bed. She said she liked to see their young, honest faces. The surgeon dressed her, and spoke to her in his own short, kind way, pitying her through his eyes, Rab and James outside the circle--Rab being now reconciled, and even cordial, and having made up his mind that as yet nobody required worrying, but as you may suppose _semper paratus_.[111-3]

So far well; but four days after the operation my patient had a sudden and long shivering, a "groosin'," as she called it. I saw her soon after; her eyes were too bright, her cheek colored; she was restless, and ashamed of being so; the balance was lost; mischief had begun.

On looking at the wound, a blush of red told the secret; her pulse was rapid, her breathing anxious and quick, she wasn't herself, as she said, and was vexed at her restlessness. We tried what we could, James did everything, was everywhere; never in the way, never out of it. Rab subsided under the table into a dark place, and was motionless, all but his eye, which followed every one. Ailie got worse; began to wander in her mind, gently; was more demonstrative in her ways to James, rapid in her questions, and sharp at times. He was vexed, and said, "She was never that way afore; no, never."

For a time she knew her head was wrong, and was always asking our pardon--the dear, gentle old woman; then delirium set in strong, without pause. Her brain gave way, and then came that terrible spectacle,

"The intellectual power, through words and things,
Went sounding on its dim and perilous way;"

she sang bits of old songs and psalms, stopping suddenly, mingling the Psalms of David, and the diviner words of his Son and Lord, with homely odds and ends and scraps of ballads.

Nothing more touching, or in a sense more strangely beautiful, did I ever witness. Her tremulous, rapid, affectionate, eager, Scotch voice--the swift, aimless, bewildered mind, the baffled utterance, the bright and perilous eye; some wild words, some household cares, something for James, the names of the dead, Rab called rapidly and in a "fremyt"[112-4] voice, and he starting up, surprised, and slinking off as if he were to blame somehow, or had been dreaming he heard. Many eager questions and beseechings which James and I could make nothing of, and on which she seemed to set her all, and then sink back ununderstood. It was very sad, but better than many things that are not called sad. James hovered about, put out and miserable, but active and exact as ever; read to her, when there was a lull, short bits from the Psalms, prose and metre, chanting the latter in his own rude and serious way, showing great knowledge of the fit words, bearing up like a man, and doating over her as his "ain Ailie," "Ailie, ma woman!" "Ma ain bonnie wee dawtie!"

The end was drawing on: the golden bowl was breaking; the silver cord was fast being loosed--that _animula blandula, vagula, hospes, comesque_[113-5] was about to flee. The body and the soul--companions for sixty years--were being sundered, and taking leave. She was walking, alone, through the valley of that shadow, into which one day we must all enter--and yet she was not alone, for we knew whose rod and staff were comforting her.

One night she had fallen quiet, and as we hoped, asleep; her eyes were shut. We put down the gas and sat watching her. Suddenly she sat up in bed, and taking a bedgown which was lying on it rolled up, she held it eagerly to her breast--to the right side. We could see her eyes bright with surpassing tenderness and joy, bending over this bundle of clothes. She held it as a woman holds her sucking child; opening out her nightgown impatiently, and holding it close, and brooding over it, and murmuring foolish little words, as one whom his mother comforteth, and who sucks and is satisfied. It was pitiful and strange to see her wasting dying look, keen and yet vague--her immense love.

"Preserve me!" groaned James, giving away. And then she rocked back and forward, as if to make it sleep, hushing it, and wasting on it her infinite fondness.

"Wae's me, doctor; I declare she's thinkin' it's that bairn."

"What bairn?"

"The only bairn we ever had; our wee Mysie, and she's in the Kingdom, forty years and mair."

It was plainly true: the pain in the breast telling its urgent story to a bewildered, ruined brain, was misread, and mistaken; it suggested to her the uneasiness of a breast full of milk, and then the child; and so again once more they were together, and she had her ain wee Mysie in her bosom.

This was the close. She sank rapidly: the delirium left her; but, as she whispered, she was "clean silly"; it was the lightening before the final darkness. After having for some time lain still--her eyes shut, she said, "James!"

He came close to her, and lifting up her calm, clear, beautiful eyes, she gave him a long look, turned to me kindly but shortly, looked for Rab but could not see him, then turned to her husband again, as if she would never leave off looking, shut her eyes and composed herself. She lay for some time breathing quick, and passed away so gently, that when we thought she was gone, James, in his old-fashioned way, held the mirror to her face. After a long pause, one small spot of dimness was breathed out; it vanished away, and never returned, leaving the blank clear darkness of the mirror without a stain. "What is your life? it is even a vapor, which appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away."

Rab all this time had been full awake and motionless; he came forward beside us; Ailie's hand, which James had held, was hanging down; it was soaked with his tears; Rab licked it all over carefully, looked at her, and returned to his place under the table.

James and I sat, I don't know how long, but for some time--saying nothing: he started up, abruptly, and with some noise went to the table, and putting his right fore and middle fingers each into a shoe, pulled them out, and put them on, breaking one of the leather latchets, and muttering in anger, "I never did the like o' that afore."

I believe he never did; nor after either. "Rab!" he said roughly, and pointing with his thumb to the bottom of the bed. Rab leaped up, and settled himself; his head and eye to the dead face. "Maister John, ye'll wait for me," said the carrier, and disappeared in the darkness, thundering downstairs in his heavy shoes. I ran to a front window: there he was, already round the house, and out at the gate fleeing like a shadow.

I was afraid about him, and yet not afraid; so I sat down beside Rab, and being wearied, fell asleep. I awoke from a sudden noise outside. It was November, and there had been a heavy fall of snow. Rab was _in statu quo_;[115-6] he heard the noise too, and plainly knew it, but never moved. I looked out, and there, at the gate, in the dim morning--for the sun was not up--was Jess and the cart--a cloud of steam rising from the old mare. I did not see James; he was already at the door, and came up to the stairs, and met me. It was less than three hours since he left, and he must have posted out--who knows how--to Howgate, full nine miles off; yoked Jess, and driven her astonished into town. He had an armful of blankets, and was streaming with perspiration. He nodded to me, spread out on the floor two pairs of clean old blankets, having at their corners "A. G., 1794," in large letters in red worsted. These were the initials of Alison Græme, and James may have looked in at her from without--himself unseen but not unthought of--when he was "wat, wat and weary," and after having walked many a mile over the hills, may have seen her sitting, while "a' the lave were sleepin';" and by the firelight working her name on the blankets, for her ain James' bed.

He motioned Rab down, and taking his wife in his arms, laid her in the blankets, and happed her carefully and firmly up, leaving the face uncovered; and then lifting her, he nodded again sharply to me, and with a resolved but utterly miserable face, strode along the passage, and downstairs, followed by Rab. I followed with a light; but he didn't need it. I went out, holding stupidly the candle in my hand in the calm frosty air; we were soon at the gate. I could have helped him, but I saw he was not to be meddled with, and he was strong, and did not need it. He laid her down as tenderly, as safely, as he had lifted her out ten days before--as tenderly as when he had her first in his arms when she was only "A. G."--sorted her, leaving that beautiful sealed face open to the heavens; and then taking Jess by the head, he moved away. He did not notice me, neither did Rab, who presided behind the cart.

I stood till they passed through the long shadow of the College, and turned up Nicholson Street. I heard the solitary cart sound through the streets, and die away and come again; and I returned, thinking of that company going up Libberton Brae, then along Roslin Muir, the morning light touching the Pentlands and making them on-looking ghosts; then down the hill through Auchindinny woods, past "haunted Woodhouselee"; and as daybreak came sweeping up the bleak Lammermuirs, and fell on his own door, the company would stop, and James would take the key, and lift Ailie up again, laying her on her own bed, and, having put Jess up, would return with Rab and shut the door.

James buried his wife, with his neighbors mourning, Rab inspecting the solemnity from a distance. It was snow, and that black ragged hole would look strange in the midst of the swelling spotless cushion of white. James looked after everything; then rather suddenly fell ill, and took to bed; was insensible when the doctor came, and soon died. A sort of low fever was prevailing in the village, and his want of sleep, his exhaustion, and his misery, made him apt to take it. The grave was not difficult to reopen. A fresh fall of snow had again made all things white and smooth; Rab once more looked on, and slunk home to the stable.

And what of Rab? I asked for him next week of the new carrier who got the goodwill of James's business, and was now master of Jess and her cart.

"How's Rab?"

He put me off, and said rather rudely, "What's _your_ business wi' the dowg?"

I was not to be so put off.

"Where's Rab?"

He, getting confused and red, and intermeddling with his hair, said, "'Deed sir, Rab's died."

"Dead! what did he die of?"

"Well, sir," said he, getting redder, "he didna exactly dee; he was killed. I had to brain him wi' a rack-pin; there was nae doing wi' him. He lay in the treviss wi' the mear, and wadna come oot. I tempit him wi' the kail and meat, but he wad tak naething, and keepit me frae feedin' the beast, and he was aye gur gurrin', and grup gruppin' me by the legs. I was laith to make awa wi' the old dowg, his like wasne atween this and Thornhill--but, 'deed, sir, I could do naething else."

I believed him. Fit end for Rab, quick and complete. His teeth and his friends gone, why should he keep the peace and be civil?

FOOTNOTES:

[101-1] _Amende_ means _apology_.

[109-2] _Glower_, a Scotch word meaning a savage stare.

[111-3] _Semper paratus_ means _always ready_.

[112-4] _Fremyt_ means _trembling, querulous_.

[113-5] _Animula blandula, vagula, hospes, comesque_, means _sweet fleeting life, companion and sojourner_.

[115-6] _In statu quo_ means _in the same position_.

ANNIE LAURIE

NOTE.--Concerning the history of this song it is stated on good
authority that there did really live, in the seventeenth century,
an Annie Laurie. She was a daughter of Sir Robert Laurie, first
baronet of the Maxwelton family, and was celebrated for her beauty.
We should be glad to hear that Annie Laurie married the Mr. Douglas
whose love for her inspired the writing of this poem, but records
show that she became the wife of another man.

Only the first two verses were composed by Douglas; the last was
added by an unknown author.

Maxwelton braes are bonnie
Where early fa's the dew,
And it's there that Annie Laurie
Gie'd me her promise true,--
Gie'd me her promise true,
Which ne'er forgot will be;
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I'd lay me doune and dee.

Her brow is like the snaw drift;
Her throat is like the swan;
Her face it is the fairest
That e'er the sun shone on,--
That e'er the sun shone on;
And dark blue is her ee;
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I'd lay me doune and dee.

Like dew on the gowan lying
Is the fa' o' her fairy feet;
And like winds in summer sighing,
Her voice is low and sweet,--
Her voice is low and sweet;
And she's a' the world to me;
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I'd lay me doune and dee.

THE BLIND LASSIE

_By_ T. C. LATTO

O hark to the strain that sae[120-1] sweetly is ringin',
And echoing clearly o'er lake and o'er lea,[120-2]
Like some fairy bird in the wilderness singin';
It thrills to my heart, yet nae[120-3] minstrel I see.
Round yonder rock knittin', a dear child is sittin',
Sae toilin' her pitifu' pittance[120-4] is won,
Hersel' tho' we see nae,[120-5] 'tis mitherless[120-6] Jeanie--
The bonnie[120-7] blind lassie that sits i' the sun.

Five years syne come autumn[120-8] she cam'[120-9] wi' her mither,
A sodger's[120-10] puir[120-11] widow, sair[120-12] wasted an'
gane;[120-13]
As brown fell the leaves, sae wi' them did she wither,
And left the sweet child on the wide world her lane.[121-14]
She left Jeanie weepin', in His holy keepin'
Wha[121-15] shelters the lamb frae[121-16] the cauld[121-17] wintry
win';
We had little siller,[121-18] yet a' were good till her,
The bonnie blind lassie that sits i' the sun.

An' blythe now an' cheerfu', frae mornin' to e'enin
She sits thro' the simmer, an' gladdens ilk[121-19] ear,
Baith[121-20] auld and young daut[121-21] her, sae gentle and winnin';
To a' the folks round the wee lassie is dear.
Braw[121-22] leddies[121-23] caress her, wi' bounties would press her;
The modest bit[121-24] darlin' their notice would shun;
For though she has naething, proud-hearted this wee thing,
The bonnie blind lassie that sits i' the sun.

FOOTNOTES:

[120-1] _Sae_ is the Scotch word for _so_.

[120-2] A lea is a grassy field or meadow.

[120-3] _Nae_ means _no_.

[120-4] _Pittance_ means _small earnings_.

[120-5] _Nae_ is _not_.

[120-6] _Mither_ is the Scotch form of _mother_.

[120-7] _Bonnie_ means _pretty_.

[120-8] _Since come autumn_; that is, it will be nine years next autumn.

[120-9] _Cam'_ is a contraction of _came_.

[120-10] _Sodger's_ is _soldier's_.

[120-11] _Puir_ is the Scotch spelling of _poor_.

[120-12] _Sair_ is _sore_, that is, _sadly_.

[120-13] _Gane_ means _gone_.

[121-14] _Her lane_ means _by herself_.

[121-15] _Wha_ is Scotch for _who_.

[121-16] _Frae_ means _from_.

[121-17] _Cauld_ is the Scotch form of _cold_.

[121-18] _Siller_ means _silver money_, or simply _money_.

[121-19] _Ilk_ means _every_.

[121-20] _Baith_ is Scotch for _both_.

[121-21] _Daut_ means _pet_.

[121-22] _Braw_ means _fine_, or _gay_.

[121-23] _Leddies_ is the Scotch form of _ladies_.

[121-24] _Bit_ means _little_.

BOYHOOD

_By_ WASHINGTON ALLSTON

Ah, then how sweetly closed those crowded days!
The minutes parting one by one like rays,
That fade upon a summer's eve.
But O, what charm or magic numbers
Can give me back the gentle slumbers
Those weary, happy days did leave?
When by my bed I saw my mother kneel,
And with her blessing took her nightly kiss;
Whatever Time destroys, he cannot this;--
E'en now that nameless kiss I feel.

SWEET AND LOW

NOTE.--In Tennyson's long poem _The Princess_ is a little lullaby
so wonderfully sweet that all who have read it wish to read it
again. It is one that we all love, no matter whether we are little
children and hear it sung to us or are older children and look back
to the evenings when we listened to mother's loving voice as she
led us gently into the land of dreams while she watched patiently
for father's return.

Here are the stanzas which are usually known by the name _Sweet and
Low_:

Sweet and low, sweet and low,
Wind of the western sea,
Low, low, breathe and blow,
Wind of the western sea!
Over the rolling waters go,
Come from the dying moon, and blow,
Blow him again to me;
While my little one, while my pretty one sleeps.

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,
Father will come to thee soon;
Rest, rest, on mother's breast,
Father will come to thee soon;
Father will come to his babe in the nest,
Silver sails all out of the west
Under the silver moon:
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.

It is interesting to try to determine just how a great poet makes
us feel so strongly the thing that he tells us. In this case
Tennyson thinks of a mother in England and a father who is
somewhere in the West, out on the broad Atlantic, but is coming
home to his little one. The mother dreams only of the home-coming
of her husband, and she wishes the baby to learn to love its father
as much as she does, so as she sings the little one to sleep, she
pours out her love for both in beautiful melody.

To express this mother-love and anxious care the poet has chosen
simple words that have rich, musical sounds, that can be spoken
easily and smoothly and that linger on the tongue. He speaks of the
sea, the gentle wind, the rolling waters, the dying moon and the
silver sails, all of which call up ideas that rest us and make us
happy, and then with rare skill he arranges the words so that when
we read the lines we can feel the gentle rocking movement that
lulls the little one, the pretty one into its gentle slumbers.

CHILDHOOD[124-1]

_By_ DONALD G. MITCHELL

Isabel and I--she is my cousin, and is seven years old, and I am ten--are sitting together on the bank of a stream, under an oak tree that leans half way over to the water. I am much stronger than she, and taller by a head. I hold in my hands a little alder rod, with which I am fishing for the roach and minnows, that play in the pool below us.

She is watching the cork tossing on the water, or playing with the captured fish that lie upon the bank. She has auburn ringlets that fall down upon her shoulders; and her straw hat lies back upon them, held only by the strip of ribbon, that passes under her chin. But the sun does not shine upon her head; for the oak tree above us is full of leaves; and only here and there, a dimple of the sunlight plays upon the pool, where I am fishing.

Her eye is hazel, and bright; and now and then she turns it on me with a look of girlish curiosity, as I lift up my rod--and again in playful menace, as she grasps in her little fingers one of the dead fish, and threatens to throw it back upon the stream. Her little feet hang over the edge of the bank; and from time to time, she reaches down to dip her toe in the water; and laughs a girlish laugh of defiance, as I scold her for frightening away the fishes.

"Bella," I say, "what if you should tumble in the river?"

"But I won't."

"Yes, but if you should?"

"Why then you would pull me out."

"But if I wouldn't pull you out?"

"But I know you would; wouldn't you, Paul?"

"What makes you think so, Bella?"

"Because you love Bella."

"How do you know I love Bella?"

"Because once you told me so; and because you pick flowers for me that I cannot reach; and because you let me take your rod, when you have a fish upon it."

"But that's no reason, Bella."

"Then what is, Paul?"

"I'm sure I don't know, Bella."

A little fish has been nibbling for a long time at the bait; the cork has been bobbing up and down--and now he is fairly hooked, and pulls away toward the bank, and you cannot see the cork.

"Here, Bella, quick!"--and she springs eagerly to clasp her little hands around the rod. But the fish has dragged it away on the other side of me; and as she reaches farther, and farther, she slips, cries--"Oh, Paul!" and falls into the water.

The stream, they told us when we came, was over a man's head--it is surely over little Isabel's. I fling down the rod, and thrusting one hand into the roots that support the overhanging bank, I grasp at her hat, as she comes up; but the ribbons give way, and I see the terribly earnest look upon her face as she goes down again. Oh, my mother--thought I--if you were only here!

But she rises again; this time, I thrust my hand into her dress, and struggling hard, keep her at the top, until I can place my foot down upon a projecting root; and so bracing myself, I drag her to the bank, and having climbed up, take hold of her belt firmly with both hands, and drag her out; and poor Isabel, choked, chilled, and wet, is lying upon the grass.

I commence crying aloud. The workmen in the fields hear me, and come down. One takes Isabel in his arms, and I follow on foot to our uncle's home upon the hill.

--"Oh, my dear children!" says my mother; and she takes Isabel in her arms; and presently with dry clothes, and blazing wood-fire, little Bella smiles again. I am at my mother's knee.

"I told you so, Paul," says Isabel--"aunty, doesn't Paul love me?"

"I hope so, Bella," said my mother.

"I know so," said I; and kissed her cheek.

And how did I know it? The boy does not ask; the man does. Oh, the freshness, the honesty, the vigor of a boy's heart! how the memory of it refreshes like the first gush of spring, or the break of an April shower!

But boyhood has its PRIDE, as well as its LOVES.

My uncle is a tall, hard-faced man; I fear him when he calls me--"child;" I love him when he calls me--"Paul." He is almost always busy with his books; and when I steal into the library door, as I sometimes do, with a string of fish, or a heaping basket of nuts to show to him--he looks for a moment curiously at them, sometimes takes them in his fingers--gives them back to me, and turns over the leaves of his book. You are afraid to ask him if you have not worked bravely; yet you want to do so.

You sidle out softly, and go to your mother; she scarce looks at your little stores; but she draws you to her with her arm, and prints a kiss upon your forehead. Now your tongue is unloosed; that kiss and that action have done it; you will tell what capital luck you have had; and you hold up your tempting trophies; "are they not great, mother?" But she is looking in your face, and not at your prize.

"Take them, mother," and you lay the basket upon her lap.

"Thank you, Paul, I do not wish them: but you must give some to Bella."

And away you go to find laughing, playful, cousin Isabel. And we sit down together on the grass, and I pour out my stores between us. "You shall take, Bella, what you wish in your apron, and then when study hours are over, we will have such a time down by the big rock in the meadow!"

"But I do not know if papa will let me," says Isabel.

"Bella," I say, "do you love your papa?"

"Yes," says Bella, "why not?"

"Because he is so cold; he does not kiss you, Bella, so often as my mother does; and besides, when he forbids your going away, he does not say, as mother does--my little girl will be tired, she had better not go--but he says only--Isabel must not go. I wonder what makes him talk so?"

"Why Paul, he is a man, and doesn't--at any rate, I love him, Paul. Besides, my mother is sick, you know."

"But Isabel, my mother will be your mother, too. Come, Bella, we will go ask her if we may go."

And there I am, the happiest of boys, pleading with the kindest of mothers. And the young heart leans into that mother's heart--none of the void now that will overtake it in the years that are to come. It is joyous, full, and running over!

"You may go," she says, "if your uncle is willing."

"But mamma, I am afraid to ask him; I do not believe he loves me."

"Don't say so, Paul," and she draws you to her side; as if she would supply by her own love the lacking love of a universe.

"Go, with your cousin Isabel, and ask him kindly; and if he says no--make no reply."

And with courage, we go hand in hand, and steal in at the library door. There he sits--I seem to see him now--in the old wainscoted room, covered over with books and pictures; and he wears his heavy-rimmed spectacles, and is poring over some big volume, full of hard words, that are not in any spelling-book.

We step up softly; and Isabel lays her little hand upon his arm; and he turns, and says--"Well, my little daughter?"

I ask if we may go down to the big rock in the meadow?

He looks at Isabel, and says he is afraid--"we cannot go."

"But why, uncle? It is only a little way, and we will be very careful."

"I am afraid, my children; do not say any more: you can have the pony, and Tray, and play at home."

"But, uncle----"

"You need say no more, my child."

I pinch the hand of little Isabel, and look in her eye--my own half filling with tears. I feel that my forehead is flushed, and I hide it behind Bella's tresses--whispering to her at the same time--"Let us go."

"What, sir," says my uncle, mistaking my meaning--"do you persuade her to disobey?"

Now I am angry, and say blindly--"No, sir, I didn't!" And then my rising pride will not let me say, that I wished only Isabel should go out with me.

Bella cries; and I shrink out; and am not easy until I have run to bury my head in my mother's bosom. Alas! pride cannot always find such covert! There will be times when it will harass you strangely; when it will peril friendships--will sever old, standing intimacy; and then--no resource but to feed on its own bitterness. Hateful pride!--to be conquered, as a man would conquer an enemy, or it will make whirlpools in the current of your affections--nay, turn the whole tide of the heart into rough and unaccustomed channels.

But boyhood has its GRIEF too, apart from PRIDE.

You love the old dog, Tray; and Bella loves him as well as you. He is a noble old fellow, with shaggy hair, and long ears, and big paws, that he will put up into your hands, if you ask him. And he never gets angry when you play with him, and tumble him over in the long grass, and pull his silken ears. Sometimes, to be sure, he will open his mouth, as if he would bite, but when he gets your hand fairly in his jaws, he will scarce leave the print of his teeth upon it. He will swim, too, bravely, and bring ashore all the sticks you throw upon the water; and when you fling a stone to tease him, he swims round and round, and whines, and looks sorry, that he cannot find it.

He will carry a heaping basket full of nuts, too, in his mouth, and never spill one of them; and when you come out to your uncle's home in the spring, after staying a whole winter in the town, he knows you--old Tray does! And he leaps upon you, and lays his paws on your shoulder, and licks your face; and is almost as glad to see you, as cousin Bella herself. And when you put Bella on his back for a ride, he only pretends to bite her little feet--but he wouldn't do it for the world. Ay, Tray is a noble old dog!

But one summer, the farmers say that some of their sheep are killed, and that the dogs have worried them; and one of them comes to talk with my uncle about it.

But Tray never worried sheep; you know he never did; and so does nurse; and so does Bella; for in the spring, she had a pet lamb, and Tray never worried little Fidele.

And one or two of the dogs that belong to the neighbors are shot; though nobody knows who shot them; and you have great fears about poor Tray; and try to keep him at home, and fondle him more than ever. But Tray will sometimes wander off; till finally, one afternoon, he comes back whining piteously, and with his shoulder all bloody.

Little Bella cries loud; and you almost cry, as nurse dresses the wound; and poor old Tray whines very sadly. You pat his head, and Bella pats him; and you sit down together by him on the floor of the porch, and bring a rug for him to lie upon; and try and tempt him with a little milk, and Bella brings a piece of cake for him--but he will eat nothing. You sit up till very late, long after Bella has gone to bed, patting his head, and wishing you could do something for poor Tray; but he only licks your hand, and whines more piteously than ever.

In the morning, you dress early, and hurry downstairs; but Tray is not lying on the rug; and you run through the house to find him, and whistle, and call--Tray--Tray! At length you see him lying in his old place, out by the cherry tree, and you run to him; but he does not start; and you lean down to pat him--but he is cold, and the dew is wet upon him--poor Tray is dead!

You take his head upon your knees, and pat again those glossy ears, and cry; but you cannot bring him to life. And Bella comes, and cries with you. You can hardly bear to have him put in the ground; but uncle says he must be buried. So one of the workmen digs a grave under the cherry tree, where he died--a deep grave, and they round it over with earth, and smooth the sods upon it--even now I can trace Tray's grave.

You and Bella together put up a little slab for a tombstone; and she hangs flowers upon it, and ties them there with a bit of ribbon. You can scarce play all that day; and afterward, many weeks later, when you are rambling over the fields, or lingering by the brook, throwing off sticks into the eddies, you think of old Tray's shaggy coat, and of his big paw, and of his honest eye; and the memory of your boyish grief comes upon you; and you say with tears, "Poor Tray!" And Bella too, in her sad sweet tones, says--"Poor old Tray--he is dead!"

FOOTNOTES:

[124-1] From _Reveries of a Bachelor_, by Donald G. Mitchell (Ik Marvel).

THE BUGLE SONG

_By_ ALFRED TENNYSON

The splendor falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story:
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far from cliff and scar
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river:
Or echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow for ever and for ever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

FROM THE IMITATION OF CHRIST

_By_ THOMAS à KEMPIS

OF FOLLOWING CHRIST AND DESPISING ALL WORLDLY VANITIES

Our Lord saith: he that followeth me walketh not in darkness.

These are the words of Christ in the which we are admonished to follow his life and his manners if we would be truly enlightened and be delivered from all manner of blindness of heart.

Wherefore let our chief study be upon the life of Jesus Christ.

Sublime words make not a man holy and righteous, but it is a virtuous life that maketh him dear to God.

I desire rather to know compunction than its definition. If thou knewest all the sayings of all the philosophers, what should that avail thee without charity and grace?

All other things in the world, save only to love God and serve him, are vanity of vanities and all vanity.

And it is vanity also to desire honour and for a man to lift himself on high.

And it is vanity to follow the desires of the flesh and to desire the thing for which man must afterward grievously be punished.

And it is vanity to desire a long life and to take no care to live a good life.

And it is vanity for a man to take heed only to this present life and not to see before those things that are to come.

Study therefore to withdraw thy heart from love of things visible and turn thee to things invisible.

For they that follow their senses stain their consciences and lose the grace of God.

OF A HUMBLE OPINION OF OURSELVES

Every man naturally desireth knowledge; but knowledge without love and fear of God, what availeth it?

Certainly the meek plow-man that serveth God is much better than the proud philosopher that, taking no heed of his own living, studies the course of the stars.

He that knoweth himself well is lowly in his own sight and hath no delight in man's praises.

If I knew all things that are in the world and had not charity, what should that help me before God who shall judge me according to my deeds?

Unwise is he that more attendeth to other things than to the health of his soul.

Many words fill not the soul; but a good life refresheth the mind and a pure conscience giveth a great confidence in God.

The more thou canst do and the better that thou canst do, the more grievously thou shalt be judged unless thou live holily.

Think not highly of thyself but rather acknowledge thine ignorance.

If thou wilt learn and know anything profitably, love to be unknown and to be accounted as of little worth.

OF THE TEACHING OF TRUTH

Blissful is he whom truth itself teacheth, not by figures or voices, but as it is.

What availeth great searching of dark and hidden things for the which we shall not be blamed in the judgment though we know them not?

He to whom the Word Everlasting speaketh is delivered from a multitude of opinions. Of one Word came all things, and all things speak one word; that is the Beginning that speaketh to us. No man without the Word understandeth or judgeth righteously.

He to whom all things are one and who draweth all things to one and seeth all things in one may be quiet in heart and peaceably abide in God.

O God of truth, make me one with thee in everlasting love!

Ofttimes it wearieth me to hear and read many things; in thee Lord is all that I wish and can desire.

Let all teachers hold their peace and all manner of creatures keep their silence in thy sight: Speak thou alone to me!

Who hath a stronger battle than he that useth force to overcome himself? This should be our occupation, to overcome ourselves and every day to be stronger and somewhat holier.

Meek knowing of thyself is more acceptable to God than deep inquiry after knowledge.

Knowledge or bare and simple knowing of things is not to be blamed, the which, in itself considered, is good and ordained of God: but a good conscience and a virtuous life is ever to be preferred.

And forasmuch as many people study more to have knowledge than to live well, therefore ofttimes they err and bring forth little fruit or none.

Certainly at the day of doom it shall not be asked of us what we have read but what we have done; nor what good we have spoken but how religiously we have lived.

Verily he is great that in himself is little and meek and setteth at naught all height of honour. Verily he is great that hath great love. Verily he is prudent that deemeth all earthly things foul so that he may win Christ. And he is verily well learned that doth the will of God and forsaketh his own will.

OF WISDOM IN MAN'S ACTIONS

It is not fit to give credence to every word nor to every suggestion, but every thing is to be weighed according to God, warily and in leisure.

Alas, rather is evil believed of another man than good; we are so weak.

But the perfect believe not easily all things that men tell, for they know man's infirmity, ready to speak evil and careless enough in words.

Hereto it belongeth also not to believe every man's words, nor to tell other men what we hear or carelessly believe.

Have thy counsel with a wise man and a man of conscience and seek rather to be taught by thy betters than to follow thine own inventions.

Good life maketh a man wise in God's sight and expert in many things.

The more meek that a man is and the more subject to God the more wise shall he be in all things--and the more patient.

OF READING THE SCRIPTURES

Truth is to be sought in holy writings, not in eloquence. Every holy writing ought to be read with the same spirit wherewith it was made.

We ought in Scriptures rather to seek profitableness than subtle language.

We ought as gladly to read simple and devout books as high and profound ones.

Let not the authority of him that writeth, whether he be of great name or little, change thy thought, but let the love of pure truth draw thee to read.

Ask not who said this, but take heed what is said. Man passeth, but the truth of the Lord abideth everlastingly.

God speaketh to us in diverse ways without respect to persons.

If thou wilt draw profit in reading, read meekly, simply and truly, not desiring to have a reputation for knowledge.

OF INORDINATE AFFECTIONS

Whenever a man coveteth anything inordinately, anon is he disquieted in himself.

The proud man and covetous hath never rest: the poor and the meek in spirit dwell in peace.

The man that is not perfectly dead to himself is soon tempted and soon overcome by small things and things of little price.

In withstanding passions and not in serving them, standeth peace of heart.

There is no peace in the heart of the carnal man nor in him that is all given to outward things; but in the fervent, spiritual man is peace.

OF SHUNNING TOO GREAT FAMILIARITY

Show not thy heart to every man but bring thy cause to him that is wise and feareth God.

Converse rarely with young people and strangers.

Flatter not rich men and seek not great men; but keep company thyself with meek and simple men and talk of such things as will edify.

Be not familiar to any woman; but generally commend all good women to God.

Desire to be familiar with God and with his angels and avoid knowledge of men. Love is to be given to all men, but familiarity is not expedient.

It happeneth some times that a person unknown shineth by his bright fame, whose presence offendeth and maketh dark the eyes of the beholders. We often hope to please others by our being and living with them, but often we displease them through the bad manners they find in us.

OF SHUNNING MANY WORDS

Avoid noise and the press of men as much as thou mayest: for talking of worldly deeds, though they be brought forth with true and simple intention, hindereth much: for we be soon defiled and led into vanity.

I have wished myself ofttimes to have held my peace and not to have been among men. Why speak we and talk we together so gladly, since seldom we come home without hurting of conscience?

We talk so oft together because by such speaking we seek comfort each from the other and to relieve the heart that is made weary with many thoughts; and we speak much of such things as we love or desire or such things as we dislike. But, alas, it is ofttimes vainly and fruitlessly, for such outward comfort is a great hindering to inward and heavenly consolation. Therefore we ought to watch and pray that our time pass not idly by.

OF FLEEING FROM VAIN HOPE AND ELATION

He is vain that putteth his hope in men or in other created things.

Be not ashamed to serve other men for the love of Jesus Christ and to be considered poor in this world. Stand not upon thyself but set thy trust in God. Do what in thee is and God shall be nigh to thy good will.

Trust not in thine own knowledge nor in the skill of any man living; but rather in the grace of God that helpeth meek folk and maketh low them that are proud.

Rejoice thee not in riches if thou have any, nor in friends if they be mighty; but in God that giveth all things and above all things desireth to give Himself.

Rejoice not for thy greatness nor for the beauty of that body which is corrupted and disfigured with a little sickness.

Please not thyself for thy ability or for thy wit lest thou displease God of whom cometh all the good that thou hast naturally.

Account not thyself better than others, lest peradventure thou be held worse in the sight of God that knoweth what is in man.

Be not proud of good works; for God's judgments are otherwise than thine. Ofttimes what pleaseth man displeaseth God.

If thou hast any good things in thee believe better things of others that thou mayest keep thy humility.

It hurteth thee not to be set under all men: it might hinder thee if thou settest thyself afore others.

Continual peace is with the meek man, but in the heart of the proud man are often envy and indignation.

Thomas à Kempis was born in the latter part of the fourteenth
century and lived to a good old age. His name in full was Thomas
Haemercken, but as he was born in the town of Kempen he has been
generally known by the title above given. The _Imitation_ was
written slowly, a little at a time, and as the result of reading,
reflection and prayer.

The very brief selections given above are condensed from the first
ten chapters of the first book. While in the main following the
best translation of the original, the language has been simplified
in a few places.

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB

_By_ LORD BYRON

NOTE.--Byron takes for granted his readers' knowledge of the events
with which this poem deals; that is, he does not tell the whole
story. Indeed, he gives us very few facts. Is there, for instance,
in the poem any hint as to who Sennacherib was, or as to who the
enemy was that the Assyrians came against? But if we turn to the
eighteenth and nineteenth chapters of _Second Kings_, we shall find
the whole account of Sennacherib, king of Assyria, and his
expedition against the Hebrew people. The climax of the story, with
which this poem deals, is to be found in _Second Kings_, xix, 35.

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold,
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen;
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd;
And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still.

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride:
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider, distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur[142-1] are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal,[142-2]
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

FOOTNOTES:

[142-1] _Ashur_ is the Assyrian form of our word _Assyria_.

[142-2] Baal was the chief god of the Assyrians.

RUTH

NOTE.--This charming story may be found complete in the book of
_Ruth_ in the Old Testament by those who wish the literal Bible
narrative as it is there given.

Little is known as to the date of the writing of the book of
_Ruth_. Some authorities believe that it was written earlier than
500 B.C., while others contend that it was not written until much
later. As to the purpose, also, there are differences of opinion;
is the book merely a religious romance, told to point a moral, or
is it an historical narrative meant to give information as to the
ancestry of David? Whichever is true, the story is a delightful
one, and we enjoy reading it just as we do any other story, apart
from its Biblical interest.

I

Now it came to pass in the days when the judges ruled in Judah that there was a famine in the land, and a certain man of Bethlehem-Judah went to sojourn in the country of Moab, he, and his wife and his two sons. Together they came into the land and continued there; but the man died, and the wife was left, and her two sons.

And they took them wives of the women of Moab; the name of the one was Orpah, and the name of the other was Ruth; and they dwelled there about ten years. Then the two sons died also both of them; and the woman, Naomi, their mother, alone was left of the family that came into Moab.

Then she arose with her daughters-in-law, that she might return from the country of Moab; for she had heard in the country of Moab how that the Lord had visited his people in giving them bread.

Wherefore she went forth out of the place where she was, and her two daughters-in-law with her; and they went on the way to return unto the land of Judah.

But Naomi said unto her two daughters-in-law, "Go, return each to her mother's house. The Lord deal kindly with you, as ye have dealt with the dead, and with me. The Lord grant you that ye may find rest again, each in the house of her husband."

Then she kissed them; and they lifted up their voices and wept, and said unto her, "Surely we will return with thee unto thy people."

Naomi said, "Turn again, my daughters, why will you go with me? Have I yet any more sons that may be your husbands? Nay, it grieveth me much for your sakes that the hand of the Lord is gone out against me. Turn again my daughters; go your way."

Again they lifted up their voice and wept, and Orpah kissed her mother-in-law, but Ruth clave unto her.

Naomi said, "Behold, thy sister-in-law is gone back unto her people, and unto her gods; return thou after thy sister-in-law."

And Ruth said, "Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God: where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried: the Lord do so to me, and more also, if ought but death part thee and me."

When Naomi saw that Ruth was steadfastly minded to go with her, then she left speaking unto her. So they two went until they came to Bethlehem.

There it came to pass that all the city was moved about them, and the people said, "Is this Naomi?"